


A Seat at the Table

by Pogniscrow



Category: Wanna One (Band)
Genre: Angst, Daehwi likes to make food, Food, Food Fiction, Lots of Food, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-28 12:46:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13904316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pogniscrow/pseuds/Pogniscrow
Summary: the meal, above all things, is a story. In its core there lies a beginning, a middle and an end. Beyond it lies gestures and motions—a flow. And further past lies its heart and spirit: the cause of its telling, the thesis of its being. Within each meal, bad or good, is a purpose.This is Lee Daehwi’s





	1. Menu: Appetizers

**_Appetizers_** :

to begin we have prepared a sampling of dishes that may or may not be pleasant. They are not necessarily things that one would eat at the start of the meal, but they, in their own sense, function as starters should. In their fullness, these dishes lay down a backdrop upon which we shall build our tapestry. These small fragments of flavors work together to form a first glimpse into what is to come, of what our meal will aspire to achieve by the end.

But we shall busy ourselves with that when the time comes, for now we tuck in.

Right now, it’s bon appetit.

 

 

For appetizers we have prepared the following:

**MOM’S CABBAGE KIMCHI WITH OYSTERS, NOT SHRIMP**

_fresh napa cabbage kimchi flavored with salted oysters and served with soy bean braised pork shoulder_

**THE PERFECT FRIED CHICKEN**

_chicken battered in vodka and fried till crispy_

**KATSUDON FOR TWO**

_two chicken cutlets dredged in panko and served with soy-mirin sauce, onions and egg_

**FRENCH ONION SOUP**

_the classic french soup inspired by Julia Child’s recipe, but made with a few korean alterations_


	2. Appetizer: mom’s cabbage kimchi with oysters not shrimp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it’s a trade truth, mothers make the best kimchi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the biggest thank you to my love and fellow food enthusiast @shimramyun. You’re a wonder.

Daehwi thinks that to the unanointed, first love was like the first bite of kimchi. It’s unfamiliar, intimidating, and requires a whole lot of positive reinforcement to get your head around, especially if your courage often faltered. If you were too afraid of the beating red, then maybe it would be easier to shy away, but for those strong enough to get past the coddled odor of sweating cabbage and sour fruit, the first bite could feel like the beckoning of a new adventure. Or it could end in the bitterest taste in your mouth. Trying new things meant running the risk of hurting yourself. However, it’s that element of unknown that makes life so interesting.

Daehwi likes kimchi. He, however, does not like feelings, especially the feelings he’s come to associate with Bae Jinyoung.

He was a friend, if he could call him that. Jinyoung was a neighbour that strayed into Daehwi’s apartment after almost burning down his kitchen with an ill-fated chicken. Daehwi offered him a meal and Jinyoung offered his friendship. They went on from there.

They worked like that: Daehwi would knock on his door with the promise of a hot meal and Jinyoung would accept with a grateful smile. Jinyoung would go grocery shopping with him and pay for everything, and Daehwi would thank him with a blush that he hides to the best of his abilities. Jinyoung would thank him for cooking for him all the damn time, Daehwi would withold the fact that the arrangement benefited him more than it should have.

What they had was warm, calm like an apple pie. It’s like smooth pastry folded with butter and glazed fruit embraced with cinnamon and nutmeg. It’s simple and safe and delicate. He can’t let heat crawl up his spine, or jitters start stuttering through his fingertips. He can’t allow this wanton urge to erode the purity, simplicity and ease of what they had.

But it happens. Daehwi doesn’t want it to, but it does, and when it does, the things feel… different.

It was painfully obvious when they shared a bowl of patbingsu and Daehwi felt like he was running a marathon, what with his heart beating erratically in his chest whenever Jinyoung’s spoon so much as clinked with his. (More glaringly obvious when Daehwi imagined that it was Jinyoung attempting to flirt.)

He doesn’t know when his heart took the plunge for him, he just knows that it did, and with much conviction.

It was when he failed to explain the constant heat that ebbed in his chest and the sudden spirit that fizzed through his veins. It was the hundred different things clashing and bouncing off each other deep within him, as if his stomach was churning things that weren’t supposed to be churned, like rocks or a split custard. That whatever he did and however long he tried to settle the tumbling fragments, the pieces would never smooth out.

Because the first time he ever saw Bae Jinyoung, Daehwi felt like he was being swayed against his will, like a ship through rough seas. It was vagrant heat settling in his gut, and the feverish excitement eroding the spaces underneath his skin.

In many ways, kimchi was like that. It was this unnerving heat the travels through your body, and this punching zing that opens up your tongue. It is this great burst of life blooming from every corner of the mouth. It is a great unsettlement of senses, big and small.

So here he is, serving a bowl of kimchi and rice for dinner. He knows the language he spoke was not a mutually known subject between them. Jinyoung spoke in pure Korean and Daehwi was speaking in the dialect of grocery lists and almost admissible changes in his recipes. There stood a linguistic barrier between them that no dictionary could ever have the hope of decoding, but Daehwi continued because this was what he was good at, and if Jinyoung would never get what he’s trying to say, then maybe he’s okay with that.

That’s how he finds himself serving the kimchi of Jinyoung’s mother. Daehwi admits that this might just be his most desperate (and obvious) attempt at wooing Jinyoung, and it may just hurt him more if Jinyoung doesn’t at least catch something, anything.

This is a trade truth – mothers made the best kimchi. Daehwi’s mother always made theirs the way he liked it, with apples rather than pears, an added portion of radish and leeks, and always, always with salted shrimp, not oysters. Never oysters. When Daehwi started living alone, he made it like how his mom did, exactly.

However, all mothers did it differently. Like how Bae Jinyoung’s mother made hers with pears, not apples; more radish than carrot; and, because her son was extremely allergic, oysters, not shrimp.

Since Jinyoung had found himself settled into his neighbour’s life more deeply than initially intended, Daehwi had to implement a change in his kimchi.

He reserved the smallest portion of his monthly kimchi production for his neighbour. To it, he added neither shrimp, nor oyster. Jinyoung did not complain, not that Daehwi would expect him to.

But today is special.

It’s not special by any conventional means. There’s no birthday, no cause for celebration and certainly no spike in courage levels, but there’s something in the air that compels Daehwi. Maybe fate called upon him, maybe it wants to say, “today, take a risk.”

So he takes out the kimchi. The replica of Mrs. Bae’s kimchi that Daehwi made himself.

He could only base his attempt to recreate the treasured recipe on the stories Jinyoung recalls of his mother preparing it for winter and the several times Jinyoung brought back some from a visit home. It’s a good thing that Daehwi has got an instinctive palate.

Jinyoung said that the first thing she would do was rain salt on a plastic basin of about 15 halved heads of cabbage. There’s no point to it, he would say, but it was the first step—you do not skip the first step.

With seasoned hands, Daehwi began by showering his tub with large grains of sea salt. He then started the process, stroking through the leaves once before grabbing a handful of salt and rubbing each layer with enough to coat his palm. He does this again and again until he’s done the extent of his wide plastic basin. The next step is to wait. He brined the cabbages for a day, having turned them every few hours to let all the salt permeate through the stern flesh before letting them rest and transform on their own.

The next morning he began with cold water running through the pickled cabbage. Up until that point the recipes hardly differed. The cabbages’ leaves had become tender, but still held enough firmness within them to stand upright without slacking all the way to the ground. They’ve turned semi-translucent, as if covered with a fine film of jelly, and were moist to the touch. The morning begins with tearing halves into quarters and running them through the cold water before leaving them to dry.

The recipe diverged at the porridge, and by extension, the paste. Daehwi prefers his rice porridge thick, like clumpy, cheap fast food gravy. Mrs. Bae made hers like a smooth, creamy, lump-free soup. Daehwi observed that her vegetable cuts were sizeable like toothpicks and she used one heaping spoonful and half for her chili flakes.

Then he added the appropriate greens and fruits. First, pears, not apples, more carrots than radish, and because this was for Bae Jinyoung salted oysters, not shrimp.

Stuffing the kimchi always felt the closest to love. The act of it felt like the culmination of all the things you’ve perspired to achieve. It’s the finale to your labor of love.

To Daehwi, the first taste of kimchi, the first bite into the unknown, felt like first love. Making kimchi was the ultimate profession of love. It’s an arduous task, one that requires multiple days of preparation. It’s labor intensive and needs utmost patience. Kimchi demands your attention and sucks out your time and energy.

For Daehwi, kimchi seemed the most appropriate way to say “I love you.”

He wants to say this is the second time he’s fallen in love, but he knows he’d be lying. The first time was not this all-consuming and chaotic. The first time was never so horribly terrifying. The first time was not first love. It was love, of that Daehwi is sure. But Daehwi can confirm that Jinyoung has stolen his heart like no one ever has. He strikes so much fear and leaves Daehwi utterly breathless that even the most powerful anesthetic wouldn’t even faze his beating heart.

When Jinyoung arrives and sees the simple meal of boiled pork and a bowl of fresh kimchi, his smile is big and warm.

“This looks good,” he says as he settles into his seat, feet dragging the chair closer and hands reaching the chopsticks before hastily taking a bite of kimchi. He chews gracelessly, with dots of chili flakes resting on the side of his face. He chews in contentment until he doesn’t. His genial expression turns flat, then confused in a matter of seconds as he cautiously gulps the first bite.

Daehwi feels a deep wave of nausea hit him as he finds himself clamming up at the shift in mood.

“Hwi, this tastes just like my mom’s kimchi, “ he mumbles, “too much like her kimchi.”

Daehwi breathes a sigh of relief as he lets his chopsticks grab onto clumps of cabbage and sends them straight into his mouth. There’s a different quality to the paste, it taste mustier and almost darker compared to the clean aftertaste shrimp would leave. It’s not obvious to most, but for someone as sensitive to oysters as Daehwi, and someone so familiar like Jinyoung, the shift in flavor is palpable.

“Daehwi, you hate salted oysters.”

Daehwi piles his pork with the slightest amount of kimchi, just barely covering the thin film of fat. He makes a show of enjoying it, chewing with a hum, but Jinyoung sees through it in a heartbeat.

“Daehwi, why did you add oysters?”

He gulps it down, finding the pork drowning the still strong aftertaste of the cabbage. Like this, fresh and brand new, kimchi was at its most fragrant. It smelled sweet and inviting, with the scent of the mild chili powder mingling with still pungent leeks and scallions. In this form, you taste every layer of flavor added, from the carrots, the radish, the fish sauce, the ginger and, most importantly, the salted oyster.

“I wanted to experiment.”

Jinyoung doesn’t buy it and takes the kimchi away from him, “You’re lying. You like shrimp on your kimchi, not oysters.”

Daehwi’s heart soars a bit at the knowledge that Jinyoung knows his preferences, but the euphoria is short-lived as he sinks deeper into his seat, trying to formulate a response that would make this entire ruckus less embarrassing.

“Did you do it for me?”

Daehwi freezes and gently drops his chopsticks onto the table. There’s no use in lying now. He nods calmly, his eyes never reaching Jinyoung.

Jinyoung shakes his head before grabbing the entire bowl of kimchi and sticking his chopsticks into it. He rummages through the cut up leaves and fishes out an oyster, then two, then three, and places them on his bowl of rice.

“What are you doing?” Daehwi says, watching helplessly as Jinyoung starts piling dregs of cut up oyster onto his plate.

“I’m taking out the oysters.”

“Why?”

Jinyoung looks up from the bowl and gives Daehwi a soft smile, “So you don’t have to eat them, stupid.”

Daehwi smiles despite himself as he watches Jinyoung dismantle the bowl of kimchi, taking out all bits of oyster and placing them on his plate. He smiles when he’s done and places the bowl back in the center of the table.

“I appreciate you cooking for me every night already, you know? Sitting on this table is a privilege ” Jinyoung says, his eyes grateful and glimmering with the warmth that Daehwi’s come to love so much.

It’s the look, the one that unsettles things in his gut, the same look that makes things hot and tingly, and oh so dangerous.

“You make it sound like it’s special.”

Jinyoung shakes his head, “It’s such a Daehwi thing to downplay how amazing you are” he says with a chuckle that hides an emotion that Daehwi can’t quite place, “you’re a wonder.”

Daehwi feels himself flush at the compliment, and he’s about to protest, but Jinyoung is talking again.

“Don’t even try, you’re too obvious. I don’t want you to talk if you’re just going to belittle yourself. I’m not a shit-talker, you know that.”

Daehwi knows. Jinyoung is scathingly sincere. He doesn’t like mincing his words. He will tell you if he hates something, even if it struck a heartstring or five, however, Daehwi’s always felt that Jinyoung reserved himself whenever he talked to him. It often felt like Jinyoung had a secret hiding at the tip of his tongue. Like he’d shoved the fullness of his sincerity down his throat and only said half the things he wanted to say.

It’s true that Jinyoung was no shit-talker, but he’s never fully been honest with Daehwi, of this he’s certain. And of this, he’s most afraid.

But he doesn’t say this, he never says this. He nods instead.

“You know, I’ve been thinking this for a while, with our arrangement, it would be smart to just be roommates,” Jinyoung says all of a sudden, “I know you like living by yourself, but I spend a lot of time here, and we could split the cost of utilities. You should really consider my offer.”

Jinyoung looks hopeful. His eyes don’t reach Daehwi and his lips have thinned out into a line.

In the ideal world without all the emotional baggage Daehwi has been storing for two decades, he would have agreed wholeheartedly . Maybe then Daehwi would chafe off this crippling social anxiety he’s been harboring for years, he could possibly come clean about how he feel rather than bottling it up and letting it fester in his heart . He could, possibly, learn to live with another human being and smile. But this is not the ideal life, this is far from the ideal. Things were too complicated. Daehwi’s web of emotional turmoil was so convoluted that even the idea of sharing more than a meal with another person felt like a breach of his personal space. He felt that loving someone too intensely, too severely would only cause harm. He felt undeserving of love.

Yet he finds himself trying to profess his love through a plate of kimchi. He’s so brazen with Jinyoung that he’s become the only exception in his long list of caveats and limitations. So confused in his attempt to keep Jinyoung within his grasp, Daehwi retains his proximity. He lets his presence linger so intimately with Jinyoung’s, yet he still keeps considerable distance from him, like a shadow that lurks beside him in perpetuity.

It’s a limbo of wanting and not wanting. A weird place only Daehwi knows. It’s how he functions, staying in a state of flux. Never hot, never cold, only lukewarm. It drove many people up the wall, and he expects the same thing with Jinyoung.

He shakes his head and rejects Jinyoung’s hopeful face. It feels like another wrench in his relationship—if you could even call it that—with his neighbor. But there’s something in the way Jinyoung looks that surprises Daehwi.

“Okay, but know that the invitation is on the table. I know it’s sudden, but just consider it?”

He nods, eyes sullen, but still hopeful. He looked like he expected Daehwi’s answer. He may not have known everything, but he knew this much. It seemed less like an ultimatum and more of an open invitation, a consideration. Jinyoung tried to take a step forward.

Daehwi nods, “Okay.”

The joy on Jinyoung’s face as he digs back into his kimchi is heartwarming. It’s full and takes up more of his face than necessary. Most importantly, the smile was for Daehwi.

His heart catches fire, it beats like a crescendo in his chest, like a full symphony reaching it climax. It hurts, it physically hurts, but suddenly something changes.

Because the discomfort cradling his heart doesn’t throb like a heartache, it changes–blooms–into warming embers like a hearth. Everything starts to calm and, abruptly, like an epiphany, things don’t seem so fragmented anymore. Quite suddenly, magnificently, Daehwi starts to smile as a blush starts invading his cheeks, ears and nape.

Jinyoung smiles at him, and Daehwi smiles back.

The first bite of kimchi was always scary. Kimchi always seemed too intimidating, but after the first bite, the edge softens considerably. The more you ate, the more you craved the life brimming from each bite.

Maybe he’s now used to the knowledge, the feeling of being in love, even if it’s only from his corner of the universe. He’s concluded that it feels nice, for now at least.

Because Jinyoung may not know, not entirely, but they’ve gotten over the cautious beginning.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In truth, I’ve been working on this since december of last year. This chapter in particular, has gone through so many changes throughout the past few months that the first draft looks completely foreign to what’s written here. I finally chose the path the story will take, thus this first chapter. 
> 
> I originally wanted to release this in three parts—appetizer, entree and dessert—each a collection of stories, but I chose this menu format as it fits the flow of the story, or more specifically the lack thereof. 
> 
> All the chapters of the first arc are written down, it just a matter of adding final touches and proofing. 
> 
> The second chapter will probably posted next week.
> 
> Anyway, kudos and comments would make me happy and motivate me to be better.
> 
> Find me on twitter and curiouscat: @jinhwisupreme 
> 
> P.S. this is my first angst (??) so please go easy on me


	3. Appetizer: the perfect fried chicken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fried chicken is the almighty christening of oil and fire—a baptism into divinity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to my loveliest beta ms shiri, i love you.

There’s something to say about a plate of perfectly fried chicken. What others might regard  as a simple meal, Daehwi does with awe  on a par with a modern miracle. From the crust , perfectly golden brown and almost rumbling at the touch, to the glistening white meat untouched by the venomous blood of its former life, now only flowing clear and true. Fried chicken is the almighty christening of oil and fire—a baptism into  divinity . 

  
He begins in the night by butchering the bird. A whole chicken lies flat on the cutting board, legs limp and skin taught against pink flesh. Daehwi begins with a thrust, his hand plunging deep into the cavity, fingers mingling with the dark bowels of the corpse. He takes hold , then with one strong tug tears out the guts. Entrails of black and crimson flail into the air and onto the board. Of the disembodied ofals he salvages from the bird, Daehwi saves the liver, the heart and the kidneys. The rest he disposes  of . Then with cold, almost freezing water, he rids the bird of other impurities still lurking in its bowels. Daehwi lets the chicken bathe until the cavity runs clear before setting it back onto the board. 

  
He moves  on to butchering the bird. Upon practice, Daehwi learned that butchering the bird does not meddle with the realms of ferocity and ruthlessness, rather it’s a dance of precision, of swift movement, of serenity. Thus he begins with an almost shy cut of the skin between the legs and breast . Т hen, with controlled aggression, he pushes the leg upward, exposing the joint that connects it to the rest of its body. Daehwi severes the binding with  а  sly bend of his knife. 

 

Butchering a chicken has always been a mundane practice for Daehwi. He often accompanied his mother while she sliced her way through chickens after market days.  She did it  with such ferocious alacrity that even the bones would bend to the will of her blade.

 

“If you look close enough, your map has been drawn through sinews and joints. The bird serves as your guide.”    
  


He takes the leg and finds the delicate sinew that travels upward between the joint of the thigh and the leg ; from there he yanks at the two pieces and creates a space where he can lay his blade to create a clean cut. 

 

He moves on to the breast and wing. He first finds the wing joint that connects it to the breast. Once located, he presses the knife underneath it, pulling the wing and creating space, so that with a quick tug, the knife comes clean through. He then folds  the  wing ’s tip over the joint, the cut portion now in the shape of a triangle, and places it with the rest of the parts. The final step is to separate the breast from the rest of the carcass. Like the joints that connect the thigh and legs, there is a line of fat that trails the length of the breast and ribs. Here he brings his knife down. He ends up with the entire breast laid on his cutting board. He turns it skin-down and finds the breast bone. He wedges through its center, creating a small dent, then turns it back around. Daehwi plants his palm flatly on the center of the breast, and like resuscitating a human from drowning, he pushes down. There’s a soft crack as the bone snaps at the pressure, separating the breast into two equal parts. Daehwi now slices through flesh and skin. 

  
He lays out his finished work, four portions of breast, two wings, two drumsticks and two thighs, out on a tray and prepares them for their anointing.

 

The cleanse is done. 

 

Jinyoung always asked why he cut his own chicken when he could buy the parts already cut. Daehwi would shake his head and say, “it’s economical.” In truth it is, but Daehwi buys his chicken whole  for a totally different reason. 

 

His mother never did any shortcuts. Everything she presented on their dinner table almost always came from her hands and the fire of their stove. She made her chicken stock from the bones of the birds she butchered, kimchi she made with the vegetables she handpicked from the market, and, on occasion, soy sauce she kept hidden in the darkest corner of their house made months beforehand. However, she never made pickled radishes, those she always served bought from the store.

 

Even when they lived in LA, the land of processed meats and canned everything, she made things fresh, mostly for her own sake, partially for her son. Cooking always made his mother the happiest. 

 

It’s the same case for Daehwi, somewhat. 

 

Daehwi preserves the sanctity of his food, the purity of its foundation as reverence  to the process and his finished product. He wants to say that from the dregs of death he makes  something  new. The chicken is his canvas, his blank page, his beginning , and cooking was his preferred medium of expression. 

 

Words always turn into hollow breath when he tries to speak his mind. He doesn’t know why he can’t talk. They seem simple enough, words, but there are inflections and pauses, stresses and accents. In the cosmos of the spoken word lies a universe of understanding and an infinity of expression. Daehwi gets so lost in tempering his words, in finding the right heat to let them out; it comes out too cold, too hot, too much, too little. Talking was not natural to him, but frying a piece of chicken was. He could find the perfect way to make salmon skin crispy without breaking the fish, whip cream till velvet, and pickle things so they can last a lifetime, but he can never convey in apt intensity how much he cherished Jinyoung. 

 

So he continues to cook for him. He continues to let him know that he cares. Hoping that with each passing day Jinyoung can learn to understand. 

 

The next process is brining the bird. The brine seemed so magical, like the waters of baptism, but with more flavor. In terms of science, it involves the virtue of equilibrium. Salt from the brine enters the chicken via osmosis, and with it – the water molecules that holds it. This tenderizes the meat and moistens it. In terms of Daehwi’s understanding, it meant bringing out the potential of the meat with the help of time and patience.

 

Daehwi makes his brine with salt, then adds heat with black peppercorns, warmth with cloves, and spritz of life from a lemon. He dunks the chicken in and keeps  it in the fridge overnight. 

 

The next day Jinyoung comes over with grocery - bought pickled radish, because Daehwi did not possess the patience  to mak e pickled radish. Jinyoung dawdles into the kitchen with his large black thermal coat and his white mask that marginally covered his small face, as Daehwi is about to start frying the chicken. 

 

The chicken has been out of the brine for about half and hour and left to return to room temperature as Daehwi prepares a light batter of corn starch, flour, and vodka for the crust. 

 

Jinyoung arrives as he’s pouring in the vodka. 

 

He siddles himself by the counter, coat and mask now off, and watches as Daehwi pours in the potato liquor. 

 

“I never knew you put vodka in chicken.” 

 

Daehwi ignores his comment as he pours out the alcohol into his mixing bowl, mixing lightly until the batter becomes a smooth batter. 

 

“It’s to make the chicken crispy.” 

 

Jinyoung walks  closer and looks at the mixing bowl  in a bit of awe. He ducks his head and takes a quick whiff, his nose scrunching at the strong scent of alcohol entering his nostrils. 

 

“How?” he says , looking up at Daehwi who was now checking the thermometer on the pot of oil he had on the burner. 

 

“It has a lot science things you have to understand.” 

 

“But isn’t vodka expensive?” 

 

“I buy the cheapest one. The one college kids drink when they want to get wasted but not spend their week’s allowance.” 

 

Jinyoung pouts, “But explain it to me.” 

 

Daehwi looks at him and sees genuine curiosity in his eyes, as if the science of frying chicken was knowledge he would get to use in the future. As if Jinyoung was not told by the fire marshals to abstain from touching a stove. 

 

“Why?” Daehwi says, brining the chicken to the mixing bowl.

 

Jinyoung shrugs as he siddles back to on the counter, “I want to understand.” 

 

“You can’t cook though,” Daehwi says as he starts dipping the chicken into the batter, his hands gently dipping each piece individually into the spiked mixture. 

 

“I know, but I still want to understand.”

 

“Why?” 

 

Jinyoung rolls his eyes at Daehwi’s stubbornness, “Because I like it when you talk about food.” Daehwi turns his head and fixes Jinyoung  with a look of confusion. 

 

Daehwi wants to ask why again, but Jinyoung beats him to it, “I like listening to you talk about food, okay ? That’s really just it.” 

 

Daehwi blushes as he takes his bowl of chicken to the stovetop. He checks the thermometer that’s submerged in the dutch oven, finding the oil at the perfect 350 degrees. He grabs his tongs and starts dropping in the chicken piece by piece. The oil wails at contact, the hot grease and moisture from the chicken battling each other in a display of unhinged aggression. 

 

Daehwi looks at the pot of bubbling oil and in a soft, tender voice he says, “Frying, it’s about taking out moisture rapidly.” 

 

Jinyoung looks at him as he speaks, his eyes swerving from the pot to  Daehwi’s soft gaze, as if he was staring into a pond rather than a pot of hot oil. 

 

“These bubbles that are coming, that’s all water from the batter. Oil has a higher boiling point than water, so once I drop the chicken, water just starts to evaporate,” Daehwi says tenderly as he turns to face Jinyoung, “that’s why I need to get the oil really hot, like way above the boiling point of water.”

 

“Why the vodka though?”

 

Daehwi checks the timer he’s set on his phone before sitting on the counter with Jinyoung. 

 

“Vodka is drier than water and a lower boiling point, so when it hits the oil it comes out faster than water, so it dries quicker, which means a crispier crust. You know, frying chicken is hard.” 

 

Jinyoung hums, “It’s often the simplest things that are the hardest to perfect.” He looks at the pot of boiling oil, then at Daehwi, “ It’s kinda like you.” 

 

Daehwi smacks him lightly on the shoulder as he tries to hide the blush creeping up his cheeks, “What does that even mean?” 

 

“You’re a simple person, but you have this really rich knowledge of food and stuff. I feel like I can ask you about things for days and you wouldn’t run out of things to say.” 

 

Daehwi looks at his timer before heading over to look at the pot of oil, trying his best to not show the flush that has bloomed on his cheeks. 

 

“Stop spouting nonsense. You get what you see.” 

 

Jinyoung shakes his head, “Sure,” he says. It’s obvious that Jinyoung does not actually mean what he says. Daehwi knows when he reserves the words at the tip of his tongue to serve silence instead. It’s easier , Daehwi thinks, for the both of them. Daehwi’s mind map was convoluted as it is, he doesn’t Jinyoung messing it up even more.  

_  
_ Daehwi never explained the real complication of frying chicken. He never said that frying chicken meant cooking the meat all the way through without losing its moisture while also keeping the crust golden brown and crunchy, not soggy. 

 

So many things can go wrong inside the pot. A too cold chicken means cooked meat and an overcooked crust, oil with too low a temperature means a soggy crust and a flacid bird, too high a temperature means a burn crust and a bloody interior. Different cuts means different cooking times, so if you’re not familiar with how long the thigh and the legs cooks, then one will be immaculate and the other might be raw. 

 

You require the knowledge of the fire. You had to know how to dance with the smoke and grease, and temper the pot to a perfect cooking temperature.  You need seasoned hands, and an acute awareness of how things mingled in a boiling pot of oil. Cooking was a science, and science required trial and error, and Daehwi’s had many an error in his time in the kitchen. 

 

Jinyoung could say the dearest, most sincere things, but could he really listen to all Daehwi had to say without looking at him like he was too invested, too involved, too affected by the little details that made a dish ?

 

But he can’t tell Jinyoung that, he can’t mutter those words, because things like that – things that worry people – things that overwhelm people are not things Daehwi wants to say. They intimidate people and scare them away. They make them eye you and shy away when you try to get close, like you’re a bomb ready to explode. People don’t want to deal with a mess, and Daehwi was an astronomical mess of suppressed emotions and conflictions too complicated to understand. 

 

So Daehwi leaves the aggression to the oil and takes the pieces of chicken  out one by one and setting them on the rack to cool. He coats with a final sprinkling of salt and brings it to his waiting guest. 

 

Jinyoung is all smiles when Daehwi drops the finished plate of fried chicken onto the table, he doesn’t even try to be gracious about grabbing a drumstick and stuffing it into his mouth. Daehwi does the same, reaching for a thigh and biting into it. 

 

It’s perfect. 

 

The crust yields almost immediately, but not without resounding  with an echoing crunch. The salt crystals have melted half - heartedly into the skin, creating flashes  of  flavor through the ridges of the thin and delicate crust. When he comes to the meat, it’s soft, the flesh almost melting as his teeth scrape through each strand. The brine has done its job, the chicken now bearing a zesty, almost spicy bite that marries well with the crust. It’s pinpoint perfection and Daehwi smiles to himself as he digs in. 

 

“You make the best chicken,” Jinyoung says after wolfing down the leg. His hands are grubby and speckled with flecks of skin, but he doesn’t care. He reaches for another and all but flings it onto his plate before grabbing slices of pickled radish from their saucer. 

 

“I don’t.” 

 

“You do.” 

 

Daehwi shakes his head and proceeds to take another  piece of chicken, “I make it well, but it’s not the best.” 

 

Jinyoung nods, “Well I’m biased. Everything you make is the best.” 

 

“You only say that because I feed you for free,” Daehwi says with a half - hearted grin that he hopes Jinyoung won’t catch. 

 

He’s too preoccupied with trying to mow down more chicken than humanly possible to try to see beyond the small smile Daehwi gives him. After some time he does  pause to breathe, “I’d pay top buck s everyday if only to prove to you how much I love your food, but I know you wouldn’t let me.”

 

His mouth has crumbs everywhere, but the smile he has glistens through the mess he’s made. Daehwi reaches for the napkin and starts dabbing Jinyoung’s face. Jinyoung readily gives in and lets Daehwi pat away stray crumbs. 

 

Jinyoung’s face is soft ; the globes of his cheeks feel like they’ve been moisturized daily. His lips are slightly chapped, fraying skin from the bitter cold dusting the edges of of bottom lip. His eyes are looking at him in what looks like contentment, but Daehwi shoves the idea  away as soon as it arises. 

 

He’s about halfway through dusting his cheeks when he realizes how intimate everything was. He hurries through his mouth and settles back into his space. Jinyoung  is left unbothered by the gesture. 

 

They finish like that  – in silence. Jinyoung helps clean and gives him a genial smile. He lingers by the door when he leaves and looks at Daehwi with something glinting in his eyes. Daehwi tilts his head in question. 

 

“Thanks for having me , ” he says it like it's the first time he’s eaten with Daehwi, like the invitation hasn’t been offered ten, twenty times before. It’s shy and meek, and Daehwi is all questioning eyes and mouth parted in slight confusion. 

 

“I always have, what do you mean?” 

 

“Thanks for never tiring of me,” Jinyoung says after a full second of looking straight at Daehwi, “Thanks for giving me a seat at your table.” 

 

“Well, you’re always welcome.” 

 

Jinyoung nods,”Good. I hope to keep it that way.” 

 

His face lights up at Daehwi’s words as he stands by the door. Then and there, Daehwi feels the space between them. He feels the gravity of the lengths that separate them and keep them in their own orbit s of isolation. Daehwi feels like he’s being pulled into Jinyoung, wanting to touch and feel, wanting to collide with him, to disrupt silence that separate them. To feel the breath and skin on his. To  _ be _ with him in this moment. However, he can’t. 

 

The pull may be strong, but the force–the fear–that holds him back is stronger, and so great that it roots him firm. He seems passive and nonchalant and unmoved in the face of Bae Jinyoung. He looks like his heart doesn’t beat ferociously, desperately for the boy across the room. Daehwi looks like he hasn’t tripped into this Bae-Jinyoung-sized rabbit hole in which he was falling, falling, falling. 

 

So when Jinyoung ’s smile fades and the door closes, Daehwi stays unmov ing, r ooted to his own lonely universe. Unwilling to let himself change, letting the silence of his isolation keep him comforted , the emotions running turbulent in his heart benign to the world a s he once again lets Jinyoung slip through his fingers.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is the second chapter. I don't really have much to say about it. This is one of my favorite chapters to write, i don't really know why. 
> 
> anyway, the next chapter will probably be posted next week, so watch out for it. It deals more with daehwi than it does jinhwi, and we meet someone new. 
> 
> as per usual, please send kudos and comments to keep me sane. 
> 
> complain to me on twitter and curious cat: @jinhwisupreme


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